Anatomy of a Spider Monkey
by blank82
Summary: Paris and Rory are cast on a reality tv show where they’re stuck in a house with two self pronounced players. Hard to summarize in five short sentences squished in this tiny box... But it’s an RJ. And plus kirk is a pimp. You can’t beat that. full summary
1. Prologue

**As a tribute to the ridiculous amount of reality shows going on out there, Paris and Rory get cast in a television show. Both their relationships are a little rocky at the moment. Paris' being she's... well, Paris. And Rory's relationship troubles are... hard to describe. Man, this summary is a bust.I assure the actual story is a lot better.But anyways, they get cast in a reality tv show. They think it's just a surreal life type of show but it's actually a poll on how long it'll take for the two guys living with them to deflower them. Jess is a little less than happy, and Jamie is more than a little concerned. It's an R/J. **

Rory had finally come to a simple, obvious conclusion.

This whole thing was Jess' fault.

If he hadn't canceled their plans in the first place and met up with her at the bookstore like they'd planned, she wouldn't have found herself trying to (and failing miserably) fend off Paris, who had taken a strange liking to complaining about the lack of books on the practice of anal cancer in the Hartford library (thus driving all the way to Stars Hollow bookstore). After taking careful note of sending Hartford library an angry letter to stock up on more books on anal cancer, a flustered Rory didn't hesitate to phone up the unreliable Jess and take the liberty to call him a 'self-imposed bipolar dolt.' Where he had responded with an indifferent 'huh… hold on I wasn't paying attention what?' right before she picked that moment to angrily hang up, mentally patting herself on the back for her nomination-worthy sissy fit fest. The satisfaction was short lived though, seeing Paris had gone from discussing her fear of reproduction organs to launching into a full on monologue in painful, excruciating detail the procedure for properly removing the gentials of a spider monkey.

And that was the scene in which the lady in blue had found them. Curiously intrigued, the lady in blue soon found herself approaching the latter and tapping the less scary looking, brunette one on the shoulder. Where she found herself greeted by a desperate 'save me save me' smile and an invitation to join their rather disturbing discussion over spider monkey reproductive organs.

"No, actually," the lady in blue replied, rather alarmed, "I… was wondering if I could talk to you two for a minute."

Paris shot the lady her infamous My-name-is-Paris-Gellar-you-killed-my-father-prepare-to-die-glare, "What are you, a sales collector? A spritzer? I like the way I smell thank you very much."

"No actually, I—_we_, the executives at Vzechy Records, are looking for… talent, you could say."

Paris scoffed, or snorted. It actually ended up as a rather fascinating combination of a scoff and a snort, "In Stars Hollow? You're looking for talent in the capital of pig racing? Take your meds, lady-- and move on to Zimbabwe, I hear they make nice fruit baskets there, at least."

The brunette, as the lady noted, shot the scary girl an offended look, the same look one would shoot another if they had brutally beaten and dumped their cat in a sewer, "Hey, Star Hollow has talent."

"Oh yes, I'm sure herding sheep is a great asset to have in Ireland. But in America, where talent is considered shaking your lower half around a pole with the coverage equal to that of a piece of ribbon, I highly doubt your Bo Peep get up will come in handy. Unless it's a kink."

"Okay first off, ew. And second, they're not sheep. They're mule."

"Oh they're sheep all right. I've seen the sacrifical burials, Gilmore."

"Sacrificial…--Paris, that's your backyard."

"My backyard is not a cemetery."

"Then explain the holy cross sign sticking from the patch of dirt with Brad Langsford's picture."

"… I am not at liberty to discuss that."

"He hasn't been in school for months Paris."

"--Not discussing, not discussing…"

"I bumped into his mother the other day and she burst into a charade of stabbing hand motions when I mentioned your name."

"There are words coming from your lips but I can't quite make out what you're saying…"

Instead of becoming incredibly uneasy and cautiously backing away from the two like a animaphobic would to a lion, the lady became increasingly excited. Almost too excited. Thereby concluding to the average eye that this lady in blue, to become so excited over sacrificial burials, was either insane or a murderer.

"Brilliant! That's exactly the 'it' we need in our show!"

Both girls' heads shot towards the lady in the blue at once, "What?"

"It!" The lady gestured enthusiastically towards the two.

The girls shared a confused glance, "Another Bush supporter?"

"Oh yeah."

"Best thing to do is to back away slowly."

"Backing away starting now."

The lady let out a laugh and slapped the two playfully (or painfully, depending on your position in the situation) on the back, "Aha! The endless wit!"

Paris whispered quietly to Rory, shooting the lady a cautious glance, "Abusive?"

"Looks that way."

"Ditch Plan A. I vote we Forest Gump our way out of this."

"Start running and don't stop till we're half a country away."

"Or at least to the nearest mental facility. We could pay a tribute to Brad while we're there."

"Aha! So you did do something to him!"

"Absolutely not. The hand prints on his neck were not mine. Neither did I have anything to do with the curious incident in which a shovel went flying at his face."

"You disfigured his face?"

"Losing your nose and half your skin cells is hardly disfiguring."

"… Paris his entire head has gone square."

"I am not at liberty to discuss that."

The lady in blue let out an involuntary shriek of giddy, yet disturbing, excitement, "Brilliant! This is brilliant! Stars! The people will love you!"

Rory and Paris simultaneously took one look at the strange glint in the crazy lady's eyes, complete with the rabid chicken-like motion of her arms, and bolted, where they 'Forest Gump'ed their way safely into the comfort of their cars.

OOOOOOOOOOO

Jess looked up from his book to his girlfriend, for the first time since the start of their conversation, as Rory took note of, in moderate amusement, "You're kidding me."

Rory shook her head, "I kid you not."

"Vzechy Records? You realize they sponser about every reality show that exists on earth right?"

"So?"

"So you're crazy. I'm dating a green roomer."

"Wow. How dare I refuse to do some cheap knock off show in which sex is a sport, showering is an option, and listening to a JV football player deflower a Texas cowgirl on a nightly basis will be my lullaby to sleep. I am just so unreasonably insane."

"Glad you see it from my point of view."

"You watch too much television."

"Well there's not much you could do around a place where the tree outside Gypsy's gas station is considered a historical landmark."

"Hey, it's where Seth Wilson's cat was found hiding after 3 consecutive weeks of searching, mister."

"And with the utter ridiculousness that goes on around here, I don't blame it."

Rory let an involuntary smile graze her lips before turning back to her coffee, while Jess shifted his attention towards the door, in which a crazy woman was excitedly snapping pictures.

"Jeez," Jess grumbled, "What the hell…"

Rory looked up, catching sight of the crazy woman with the camera, "Hey… that's the lady from the mall," she squinted at the figure, "And she has a camera. And a cell phone. And wow, is that Starbucks?" Not wasting another second, Rory jumped off the stool, "I'm going to go check it out. You, stay."

"I'll be good, Cruella."

So half an hour and a goodbye kiss later, Rory found herself in the lady in blue's office. With Paris. Who apparently was also dragged into this mess.

"So," the lady in blue started, an eery grin fixed on her face, "We are making… a show. A tape, really—

"I'm not doing porn," Paris cut in haughtily, shoving a stack of papers, which were nearly the width of her head, onto the lady in blue's desk, "Or if you insist, these are my obligations. An inhaler must be supplied for the intervals of rest in between, I tend to break out into hives when flustered so I'll need Neosporin, And I will not allow any removal of clothing futher than the coverage of that of a prostitute going to church."

"Um, actually," the lady began, "We're—

"Okay okay… a prostitute going to a funeral. But any more and that's pushing it lady!"

"It's not porn," the lady in blue replied, an easy smile slid across her face, "Or it might be, it all depends on what you decide to do on--

"Actually," Rory interrupted, internally wincing from the idea of pornography and wondering what the hell she'd gotten herself into, "We're both virgins."

Paris made a face, "Oh yeah. She's about the most virginic virgin you'll ever meet. One notch from joining a convent, if you please," she straightened then, and declared somewhat proudly, "I, on the other hand, have phallophobia."

The lady in blue stared in disbelief, "So you're saying… one of you is a self-imposed nun and the other is scared of the male reproductive organ?"

"Oh don't worry, you'll still have the cheap skank factor in your show," Paris replied brightly, "I'm not a virgin. Okay maybe I am. But the other day I was with my boyfriend, my very unvirginic boyfriend might I add, and we started—

"We'll be outside," Rory cut in quickly, grabbing Paris' arm and dragging her out before the conversation could take a crude spin.

After patiently waiting for the two to leave with a friendly smile, the lady in blue's smile quickly morphed into a look fueled solely by adrenaline as she took no time in hesitating to dive across her desk and snatch up the phone, dialing the number to the head of the records company.

"New plan. Forget what I said before. This new pitch will top the charts completely…"

…**And that was the prologue. Yeah it's kind of stringy. But I wrote this after the next chapter as an attempt to make some sense out of it. So it'll piece together better once you read the next chapter. Okay not making much sense so shutting up now. It gets better by the way, so if you think this chapter sucked, then thenext chapter at least won't possibly suck as much**


	2. Chapter 1

Jess was halfway through a can of soda when his eyes landed on the commercial.

'Two virgins, two self pronounced pimps," the television drawled out.

'Cheapass knock off show,' he dismissed, preparing to return to his reading. That was when Rory's picture flashed across the screen. Guess she had decided to do that show. Nearly dying from the sharp intake of breath he had taken while the soda was halfway down his throat, Jess managed to barely catch the next line.

"How long will it take till desires take over and our sweet Virgin Marys to give into their sexual needs?"

Jess almost laughed at the idea of Paris being sweet, if it wasn't for the even more shocking discovery.

"I realize I am extremely attractive to the female mind," Kirk was saying to the camera. Yes, Kirk. The very same Kirk who lives with his mother and cried when Jess knocked over his ice cream, "I very often find myself having to fight off quite a number of lust driven women, all of which are dying to get a hold of my body. I have a very desirable body, you know," he turned to the camera, trying and failing miserably to channel Marilyn Monroe, "I sleep in the nude."

Jess winced outwardly at the thought of Kirk's 'desirable body', but visibly relaxed. Nothing to worry about, he decided.

He thought too soon.

The screen flashed, switched over to different guy. The first thing that was painfully noticeable was the hair. For pete's fucking sake, this guy probably spent more time on his hair than half the women in the world put together.

"I'm Trevor," the guy said, flashing the screen a shiny smile filled with Chiclet teeth, "I don't usually go after girls, but for television, I guess it'd be fine."

"I don't usually go around bashing strangers heads in," Jess muttered (the thought wasn't entirely true, but nevertheless…), "but for you, I guess it'd be fine, too."

"And plus," the annoying guy, Trevor, continued, "That brunette chick. Rory? Her name Rory? Now she's a looker. Break me off a piece of that."

Who says that anymore? Jess thought, tightening his grip on the can, not noticing the sticky liquid that was splurting from the top and running over his hand, No seriously, who says that anymore? Stupid, fucking…

"And to her boyfriend? Who's watching this? I always get what I want. Remember that," the guy flashed the screen another Chiclet smile, "I'll be sure to send you that condolence card for when she breaks it off with you for me."

"And I'll be sure to send you that condolence card for when I smash your face in," Jess thought aloud, feeling the frustration churn inside his gut as he felt the childish urge to slam his fist through the television.

Luckily for the television, the shot changed to Rory. Who was looking uneasily at the screen, eyes darting around uncomfortably as she visibly fidgeted in her seat. Jess felt his lips curl into a smirk remembering how she had told him once that she thought cameras were the equivalent to 20th century brain suckers and that for every second you stare into one, your brain cells notably decrease, 'that's why' she had declared, 'Jessica Simpson can't tell chicken from tuna. All in the paparazzi.'

"Trevor?" Rory asked, responding to the cameraman's question on her feelings towards the annoying hair guy. She blinked a few times, looking very much like a deer caught in the headlights, "Who's Trevor?"

Jess relaxed his grip on the soda can. He shouldn't have been worried.

The screen then flashed over to Paris, "I can have fun," Paris declared forcefully, "I'm a very fun person. I mean, just because I refuse to indulge on a night of useless teen normalcy where I dress like a hooker and allow strange men to lick salt off my stomach does not make me a prude! _Hear that Jamie! I'm fun! I don't take things too seriously! I'm fun you hear me! I don't take things too seriously at all! Do you think I take things too seriously?_" she demanded, turning her death glare to the cameraman, in which he stuttered a hasty 'oh no. n-not at all,' "_Damn right I'm fun!_ I'm Paris Gellar! And from now on, I'll dress like a damn cha cha trapeze artist escapee from Circus Ole and allow every guy on the street to stick their tongue down my throat! Are you happy now Jamie! _Are you?_ _Are you?_"

Jess quickly shut off the television, wondering how Jamie was feeling right about now.

OOOOOOOO

It'd been five minutes. _Five minutes_ into the house. And Rory already felt obliged to rip her own damn head off in an act of aguish, where her death will become a historical landmark as the fall of reality tv. Because granted, she really didn't think this show would last too long if someone decided to kill themself on it.

Or maybe it'd just draw in more viewers. With the utter chaos going on in television network out there, it could pull either way. And the less people knew about her little television debut, the better.

She hadn't even wanted to do it in the first place. But of course, Paris will not be denied. And plus, her relationship with Jess could best be compared to at the moment, a drowned cat flailing in water, and that was at its good times. A tiny break would be better for the both of them. In fact, this won't even justify as a break. More like a temporary… bend.

Which was exactly what she had decided to tell him as she rang him up that particular moment.

"A... bend," he repeated slowly, drinking in this new information, "And exactly what does this mean?"

What did it mean? Damn it, Rory cursed herself for not having anticipated this question in the first place, "Well… uh… you know. A bend. Not quite a break and not quite… straight."

"I'm sorry. I don't speak crazy."

There was a familiar bitterness laced in his voice that Rory knew all too well. This would be the part where monosyllabic replies come to play and he shuts down like her computer during a blackout while she was in the middle of typing up a super important paper.

Panicking, Rory resorted to rambling, "Well it's a bend. I guess you could call it a break. Just instead of completely breaking, we're together still. So if I walk in on you cheating on me with Bambi McBimbo I reserve the right to be angry. 'Cause you know, it's a bend. Not really a break… A bend isn't a break. A bend is a bend. A slight twist in straight, yup that's what bend is…"

There was a distinctable sigh of angry breath from the other line. Causing Rory to pull deeper into the pit of panic and as she racked her brain, clinging to the last strands of hope in their somewhat civil conversation.

"… Or the dictionary definition," she tried, relieved that those years of memorizing the entire definition of every word in the English alphabet (or at least up to T) was coming in handy, "Uh… one, to bring something in a state of tension: to bend a bow. Two, To cause to assumed a curved—

"Oh wait I know, what's the definition for girls who just love aggravating the hell out of their boyfriends?"

Okay. That hurt. For a split second, Rory considered resorting to tears and guilting her way to the top. But thewhole principle of usingtearsas to her advantage were never too good. Nevertheless, she was still allowed to be female right? And with that she still retained the right to be fanatically pissed.

"I don't know," she answered, "Look, I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm saying."

"Were you saying you want to break up? Because correct me if I'm wrong, that's what you seemed to be getting at."

"No! No I-I don't know what I want."

"Do you ever?"

What did that mean? "What does that mean?"

"Never mind," Jess muttered, regretting ever opening the topic of conversation. From here, it'd be downhill. Pandora's box. Releasing a flood of affliction and distress.

"No Jess, tell me. For once you don't get to turn into Frank Sands."

"You know what? Maybe I don't talk to you about anything because I don't _need_ to, did that ever cross your mind? Of course it didn't. Because you just have to _fix_ everything. Can't mind your own fucking business. For god's sake this whole damn _town_ can't seem to mind their own business."

Ouch. That was harsh. Beyond harsh actually. She could have sworn, from the increasing throbbing in her chest, that her insides were ripping in half. Split straight across the seam and oh, doused in salt water. Just for kicks.

"I-I don't know what I did…" she sniffed. Oh to hell with morals. If she wanted to blubber, she could very much blubber. Screw you, Mariano, she thought to herself, internally shaking her fist.

He knew that tone of voice all too well. Damn it she was blubbering. So he resorted to silence.

So she continued her blubbering, "I-I'm not breaking up with you or anything. God, did you think I was breaking up with you? No way-- you couldn't have, I mean, I did say bend not break about ten times. And if you please, at one point I distinctly remember listing off the official Oxford dictionary definition --which I had memorized by the way-- of bend for you. But I don't know, I couldn't tell with all the angry mumbling from the other line," she took a deep breath as she continued, no longer blubbering, but just pissed, and plus she had momentum. So as Jess began to respond, she cut him off, "So folks, what can we conclude from all this? Well, door number one is my boyfriend is a pretentious asshole in need of an insane asylum." Okay. She decided that was pretty harsh. The momentum was wearing off. Now she just felt guilty, "…and door number two is I'm a just being a touchy dolt. I'm sorry. It's just that Paris has been going on and on about the anatomy of an Australian wallaby and let me tell you, don't let their adorable, innocent… virginal names fool you, wallabies are more hormonal driven than you think, Kirk is walking around naked. Naked. Kirk. Those two words should never resort to being in a sentence together. Ever. And there's this guy with this annoyingly... shiny hair, I forgot his name. Terry? Trey?"

"Trevor," Jess supplied, not bothering to offer any explanation. But her obliviousness towards him did provide him some sense of relief.

"Right. Well he's trying to get me drunk, I think. Is soda supposed to smell like Samuel Adams? Because after leaving Tr--god, what's his name?... in the kitchen with my soda, and finding him trying to hide a rather large bottle of beer behind his back, that's what my poor Sprite ended up smelling like. Anyways, I'm sorry."

"It's fine," he dismissed, letting a smirk cross his lips, "You memorized the entire Oxford dictionary."

"Only up to T."

"You're a freak."

"Aw, thanks sweetie," she replied dryly, but nevertheless letting her face break into a grin.

"I think you're right."

"About you being a pretentious asshole?"

"About the break."

"Break? No- no, no break. I said bend, _bend_!"

"A break would be the right thing, I guess."

"Did you not hear me? Do I have to spell it out for you? Well here it goes, B- E—

"Sure given my history of... casualties," One night stands, Screw fests, Wham bam thank you ma'ams, Rory knew was what he really meant, "I'm far… _far_ away from being the best opinionated person when it comes to… steady relationships," Jess continued slowly, seeming to be thinking aloud or talking to himself if anything, "But yeah. A break would be good."

Break. The word repeated in her head as Rory resisted the urge to bash the phone into a wall. She was really starting to hate that word, "Yeah… a br—I mean, bend. Would be good, that is. Yup. Bends are good."

Bend. The word replayed in his mind as Jess struggled to keep himself from bashing his fist into a wall. He was really starting to hate that word, "Yeah. Yeah. A… break. It would be good, a break."

And there was that word again, Rory sighed. Not bothering to correct him this time. If it was a _break_ he wanted. Then it was a _break_ he'd get. But nevertheless, she made sure to make a mental note to buy him a hearing aid for his birthday anyway.

And as Rory looked back on their conversation now she felt an overwhelming urge to smack herself on the head for not specifying what the hell he meant by break. Were they broken up? Because usually the result of break is broken. You break a monkey lamp, it's broken. You break a flower pot, it's broken. You break your mother's favorite pair of Jimmy Choos, they're broken. Didn't he say break? Does this mean they're dating other people now?

There was a sick feeling in her gut at the memory of how he had Shane backed up against the tree, post-herself running to Washington and pre-the start of their relationship. Quickly pushing the image away, she resorted to the only option she could think of.

Time to call in the mother.

Or not. Because, quoted directly from the screening, Lorelai was, at the moment, "out prostituting and having missionary intercourse with up and coming hot British actors."

Damn it. Now she was here. Stuck in a 200 square foot townhouse floor with a cantankerous Paris Gellar, a naked Kirk, and… Trey? What that his name?

She limited herself to one angsty groan. And that somehow escalated into throwing the phone quite roughly against a wall. In which was about when she found herself face to face with a big, black video camera lens. Great, now not only was her relationship… was it even a relationship anymore?... with her boyfriend… was he even her boyfriend anymore?... no longer definable, but she would now be known to the entire country of corrupted America as the phone girl with temperamental issues.

This day couldn't get worse.

**Famous last words**


	3. Chapter 2

… And she was proven wrong yet again.

After finding Trevor had 'accidentally' spiked every unalchoholic drink in the house, thus leaving them with absolutely nothing remotely drinkable that wouldn't cause them to sink into a stage of temporary insensibility, Paris and Kirk had ended up in two very different stages of drunk. Paris being she was hiding in the closet reciting the Periodic table and something incoherent about the sniveling liars at Clean and Clear acne control. And Kirk's boozed up being running around the house, still painfully in the nude, and singing, more like screaming, really, lines from Can't Touch This. Courtesy of MC Hammer.

And ten minutes into this surreal state of hell and five minutes into Kirk's ear-piercing screeching of 'NANANANA NANANA NANANA CAN'T TOUCH THIS!", Rory, whom she could guess was the only sober one left in this house, had finally had enough. Thus the decision of resorting to locking herself in her room with cottonballs stuffed in her ears and throw-pillow over her head.

Unfortunately, the plan had backfired. Greatly. Seeing that Trey… Terry… oh jeez _what_ was his _name_?... was lying on her bed, half naked, rose in mouth and… oh god were those candles?

"What in the—

"Hello there…" he trailed off as he shot a hasty glance at the notes scribbled incoherently on his hand, "Rory Gilmore," he recited, pronouncing her name 'Roe-ree.' Neither of which went unnoticed by a very pissed off Rory.

"Out." She demanded, pointing a vindicative finger at the door.

"But—

"I'm crabby, my boyfriend's being a dolt, I have no coffee in my system, and my mother is off having missionary sex with hot British actors, don't—mess with me. Out."

He obliged this time. Whether it was out of fear or the fact he poked his mouth with the rose thorn was beyond her. All that mattered as she was alone and it was nice and quiet and—

"Hello Lorelai!" Kirk's voice rang through the door, "No I don't know where Rory is… No I am not boozed up… No I am not- no wait, yes I'm naked… No, she cannot come to the phone."

Cursing all forms of cellular communication, Rory flung the door open, startling Kirk and taking the phone from his hands.

"Thank god," Lorelai's voice sighed from the other line, "I thought he was going to try to describe to me the form of undress he was in."

"He's naked, mom."

"Don't scare mommy, evil child."

"He's naked. Naked naked naked na—

"Yes I heard you the first five times. But Kirk, having been raised by wolves and dropped on the head many many times as a child, has various forms of undress. One being completely nude all except for a sock covering his unmentionables, two being--

"Now who's describing his various forms of undress?"

"Manipulator. So, what's wrong? Why did you call and interrupt mommy in the middle of her conquest of prostituting through Great Britain?"

"No reason."

You could practically feel the pout over the phone, "So you're going to make me guess huh?"

"I'm not—

"How's Paris?"

"Drunk. But that's not--"

"Kirk? No wait. Don't answer that."

"Mom—

"Trevor?"

"Who?"

"Hm. Oh! Jess?"

"I don't know."

"So it's Jess," Lorelai responded smugly, "So how are you and Jess doing?"

"We've kind of hit a… curb."

"A… curb."

"Yeah. Made a wrong turn, hit a curb, and now we're… bent."

"That's great honey. Now in English, please."

"I think we've broken up."

There was a crash and a few obsurities muttered as Lorelai dropped the phone with a distinctable clunk before she came on again, "So…" she trailed off.

"Try and contain your excitement mom."

"What? No, no… no excitement whatsoever. None at all. Nope. Nada. You… you think you're broken up."

"It's what I said."

"Honey, I don't think you know how this works. You're either broken up or you're not, there's no in between."

"There is for us."

"Oh no no no… see, the thing was guys is you leave the breaking up decision up to them and they'll do a horrible job at it. That's why you always gotta dump 'um first—

"But that doesn't make any—

"Nuh uh uh don't interrupt your mother in the middle of an important lesson. Anyways, thankfully, in all my years of dating—

"And being dumped."

"What did I say about interrupting? You're staying after class young lady."

"Oh joy."

"You're crabby when you're dumped."

"I wasn't d—

"Anyways, where was I? Oh yes, guy lingo. When they say 'let's just be friends,' what they really actually mean is either you're ugly, or you're a—

"But he didn't say—

"Number two," Lorelai cut in loudly, "is 'We've grown apart.' Ha. We've grown apart my ass. Now what they really mean by that is you're ugly or/and there's another chick in the picture that just gave him—

"Virgin ears."

"—bl…ah…um-- black t shirts."

"So you're saying if we all gave our boyfriends black t shirts we'd never get dumped, OJ wouldn't have brutally assassinated his wife, and the world would be in perfect harmony?"

"No fair! You rushed me!"

"You were about to describe to me the different forms of sexual positions a flavored contraception provides!"

"Sure when you put it that way it sounds bad…"

So in the end, talking to Lorelai didn't really help at all. It just ended up littering her brain with variously disturbing images.

So in the very very end, or at least after Kirk finished his rendition of Whitney Houston, Rory finally gathered enough guts to call Jess. And talk. After calling and hanging up two times of course.

Jess was, to say the least, not surprised. Or maybe he was. This was Jess, it was hard to tell anything, "Hold on just let me mark my page."

"Dirty," she supplied unhelpfully.

"…No it wasn't."

"And so it wasn't."

"You've been talking to Lorelai again, haven't you?"

"Maybe. Or maybe I could've just watched American Pie 2."

"Let's hope not. For the sake of your intelligent being. So what's up?"

"The sky."

"I'm laughing."

"And I'm bored," she settled back on the couch, "Kirk's in the middle of belting out 'Mony, Mony.'"

"Why would—

"Tribute to Billy Idol."

"Ah. That explains everything. I take it the surreal life isn't too great?"

"I just found Tr… whatshisface attempting to seduce me with a red silk bathrobe."

"…on you?"

"On him."

"Oh god."

"My point exactly.

"Are you going to have sex with him?"

She almost choked on her breathing there. Somebody was blunt. "Well that all depends."

"On…"

"You."

"Huh."

"The way I see it, if we're together, plain and simple no. But if we're broken up, it's an unwritten rule for reality tv to have rebound sex all over the house with anything with a male reproductive organ that walks by."

"What if it's Kirk?"

"Okay almost anything."

And from there, their discussion went off course. Trailing from her questioning of their relationship status to the ever-stimulating bantering on whether Sylvia Plath had stuck her head in that oven because she was insane, or just as a stunt to publicize her books. Jess has a talent of turning subjects away like that.

Soby the end of the day, her relationship was still undefined. Paris was still drunk. Kirk was still nude. And Trey… Terry… Ah forget it, was still a self- pronounced manwhore with no respect for personal space whatsoever.

OOOOOO

Wow. When she said no respect for personal space, she meant it.

Because the next morning, she woke up. Yup. No that wasn't the disturbing part. It was actually the fact that Trevor was lying on top of her that was freaking her out. She frantically checked him over. Fully clothed, thank god. He reeked of beer, but he was fully clothed.

Okay. What to do, what to do?

Option number one. Screaming.

So she did. She screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

No answer. Where was Paris and her marital kickboxing skills when she needed it?

Okay. Don't panic. _Don't_ panic.

Okay panic a little.

She was in the middle of the forementioned panic-fest when the phone rang. Huh. That was funny. She didn't remember putting the phone beside her pillow.

Then again she didn't remember having a big huge lug lying on top of her either.

Rory picked up, "Please tell me this is Erin Brocovich because I would really like to file a sexual harassment case right about now. And could you maybe add a restraining order to that while you're at it? That would be great, thanks."

"Hey, having fun?"

Rory froze from her spot under Trevor, "J-Jess."

"I just thought you might want to know, watching you on lying under another guy, live on national television for that matter, doesn't bother me at all."

Rory suddenly found it very hard to speak, she gulped, "Um… I'm going to hope that that wasn't sarcasm."

"Sorry to disappoint then. What the hell are you doing?"

"In case you haven't noticed," Rory responded dryly, staring lasers through Trevors limp body, "He'd drunk. And on top of me. And—

"Oh jeez. Don't tell me that! God this is—

"-and _unconscious. _Which was what I saying before you butted in. And I could use a little help here."

"Lots of people could use a little help. The kids in Africa, half of which are infected by AIDS and shoeless, could use a little help."

"Jess!"

"All right all right. Jeez, I'm coming. It might take a while to drive all the way to New York City though…"

"At the moment, I have a 170 pound male specimen crushing me to pancakes, where Paris and Kirk will gladly down me with a bottle of wine for breakfast. Thus I give you permission to speed."

"I'll keep that in mind when the cops pull me over."

"Oh don't act like you've never gotten a speeding ticket. I've seen the way you drive, it's like The Fast and the Furious all over again."

"So two hours?"

"Three."

"I thought you told me to speed."

"Speed, not kill yourself, Tyrese."

"You're going to have breathing problems if he stays on top of you like that any longer."

"Yes but I think my breathing problems are a tad less important than if you died colliding head on with an ice cream truck."

"Okay fine. Two and a half or nothing."

"Good boy."

Meanwhile, the network executives were watching closely, mentally patting themselves on the back for sneaking knock out pills in Trevor's drink and dragging his unconscious body on top of Rory while she was sleeping.


	4. Chapter 3

The show executives could best be described as a pack of power-hungry hyenas waiting for the pack of buffalo to fall off a cliff; tongues lopping over the sides of their mouth, teeth dripping with drool and trembling with listless anticipation. This, my friend, is what happens when you combine hunger with rabies.

Their plans however, shattered into pieces once finding that a particular buffalo had taken a side-tack.

Paris had never been good with dark compacted spaces. Unless she was heavily medicated or drunk, which she was neither at this point. And finding herself lying alone in the seluded darkness with only the tiniest crack from the closet door as her view to the outside world was not a plus on her happy meter. God help us all, Paris was not happy. And she generally was a pretty happy person. It wasn't her fault that people mistaken kicking over chairs (and human beings, for that matter) for clinical depression

It wasn't long before Paris became angry. In fact, we could pretty safely conclude that Paris was burning. With a swift crash of her foot, the coat closet door was no more.

The executives were panicking at this point. Oh yeah, they dug themselves into that hole. You see, the hyenas hadn't realized that by waiting for the buffalos at the bottom of the cliff, the buffalo were sure to land on them and break every lasting fragment of a bone in their miserable bodies.

They scattered about like chickens in a futile attempt to escape the slaughterhouse. If one of them had bothered to look into the security camera, they would've noticed that Paris had hacked an impressive-sized hole with the emergency ax into the apartment door and was in the midst of doing the same to the elevator, with every intention of crushing their measly bones. That would probably be why they hadn't bothered to look.

OOOOOOOO

On a lighter note…

Jess was pissed off. An angry breath escaped from his lips as he slammed his hands onto the desk of the apartment clerk, "It's Mar-i-ano! My name is Jess Mar-i-ano. Not Marino, not Ma-rhino. Mariano."

The clerk jolted up from the impact of his fists on the desk, "Sir, I'm zawee. We ah not eggzzzpecting a 'Mary'."

Jess glared daggers in his direction, about two seconds away from lunging over the desk and strangling the clerk with the decorative Christmas lights hanging over his head, "Listen grandpa, either get yourself some hearing aids or find a new job. Now I'm going to say this one more time before one of us loses an ear, my name—

He was cut off by Paris. In the elevator. The very torn-up elevator. And look, she was welding an ax.

One shriek from the clerk was all it took. No, she didn't hack him to pieces. Paris was scary, not a murderer. But she did tie him to his nice revolving seat with the previously-mentioned Christmas lights hanging above their heads.

She dropped down, like a hawk descending on a mouse, "Where are they?" she hissed.

"W-Who?"

Bad move. Paris attacked, snatching up the terrified clerk by the collar, "The executives! The big Baldwins! Al Pacino in his pimp dog suit!"

"T-Top floor."

Of course by that time, Jess had already slipped into the pulverized elevator and ridden up to the cast floor, where he stepped through a very battered door, grimacing at the painful sight of Kirk in the nude before strolling off in search of a big lump of orange skin and bleached hair lying on his girlfriend. He found it, somewhere between the second bathroom and the eighth living room.

He leaned against the doorway, "You know if we were in a marriage, I could be on my way for annulment papers right now and I would never have to lose a penny."

The lack of personal space obviously hadn't interfered with Rorys' ability to generate remarks, "Yes, thank you for the helpful insight into your twisted plans for our future, but I would really appreciate it if you could just hold that thought for one second because in case you haven't noticed, I have had a potential heavy-weight boxer reducing my liver into the size of a pancake for the past two hours now. I was actually aiming for another thirty minutes, but you, Speedy Gonzalos, happen to disregard every yellow sign with a special number on it that passes by."

"I take it you're not too interested in my plans for marriage counseling then?"

"Hm… not so much at the moment. But you know what's always good to hear? 'I am dragging away this big heavy man away before he flattens dear Rory's intestines into oatmeal.'"

"That sounds extremely kinky."

"Oh yeah well it'd be a lot kinkier if he wasn't crushing my appendix into the shape of those English cakes my grandmother serves to her DAR lady-friends.."

Thinking he prolonged the torture enough, Jess took hold of Trevor's ankles and pulled, "Just for future reference… tell Rocky here that ten pounds of meat a day is not part of the daily food pyramid will you?"

"I'll keep that in mind when I sue him for a new set of lungs," she choked out, wiggling out from underneath Trevor, grasping Jess' shoulder, "Hey Jess, pay a visit to Party City and inflate them for me."

"Dirty."

She paused to take in his reply, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion, "No it wasn't."

"And so it wasn't."

"You've been spending too much time around me."

Jess, having finally pulled the unconscious, orange Trevor off his girlfriend, decided he wouldn't spend another second holding his orange feet, resulting in Trevor tipping over the edge of the bed and plopping unceremoniously onto the floor.

Rory craned her neck to frown over at the orange pile, "That was pretty mean."

"You're welcome."

"Thank you. You know, next time I'm sleeping on a shelf. That way Trevor can't reach if he suddenly feels an overwhelming urge to smother me in my unconscious state."

"Good girl," he slung an arm around her shoulder, turning his head to casually plant a kiss on her cheek, "What do you say we get out of here? One more minute in here with this dolt I'll slam my head against the wall."

"That's a little rash, don't you think? We're getting you a psychiatrist once we're through here," she gripped the doorknob and turned. It wouldn't budge. Not even a little, in fact it was probably the non-budgiest doorknob in the history of locked doorknobs, "Uh… Jess?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't slam your head too hard."

"What?" He jiggled the doorknob, "Aw jeez…."

"This is bad," Rory supplied unhelpfully, more to herself than to anyone.

"Thank you Captain Obvious."

"This is very very bad," Rory continued, ignoring him, "I'd say this falls under the category of 'Santa Claus is dead!' bad."

"Santa Claus doesn't—

"Okay, okay. So it's not that bad. But I still say that it's indefinitely worse than the 'What do you mean John Travolta's not dancing anymore!' bad."

"No I don't think it's that bad."

She whipped her head around in shock, not about to surpass the chance to take advantage of an opening to make him squirm, "My god, did I just hear what I think I did?"

"No I—c-can we focus here please?"

"I'll bet you watch Grease every other day! Oh! And practice your electric slide in front of the mirror in the morning! My god that's why you always take longer than me in the bathroom! It all makes sense now!"

He started towards the window, "Ignoring you now."

"Don't be embarrassed! I don't care if you worship John Travolta, I find his shrines and mile high Elvis hair very philosophical!"

He threw the window open, glancing down at the ant-sized cars in mild concentration.

Rory paused to look over at her troubled acquaintance, "You know, suicide is not the way to make Danny dance again."

"I'm looking for a way out."

"Wow, emo."

"No I meant of this apartment," he stuck his head out of the widow, frowning as he spotted the nearest fire escape to be a couple feet down, "Have you ever scaled a mountain?"

"Oh yeah. I'm a regular Julie Andrews. I've danced around on hills, rich men in suits. I'm thinking Mount Rushmore next spring…"

"So no?"

"No way in the fifth dimension of the time."

"Yeah. I'm not really a fan of falling face-down into pavements myself," a brief moment in time passed before he swung a leg out the windowframe, "I'll close the window on my way out."

"What? No!" she grabbed his arm, "You're on illegal drugs of some kind, right? Please say you're on crack, because I'd really rather have a temporary schizoid for a boyfriend as opposed to a genuinely schizoid person."

He brushed her hand off, "Well then, sorry to disappoint."

"You're leaving me with a dead body! Just wait till Oprah hears about this. I'm pregnant!"

"I'll send fanny packs," was his reply as his hand fumbled for a place to grasp, "Do you think you could reach the windowsill up there?"

"I-I'm coming?"

"That's what I said."

She immediately backed up, half in fear that insanity was contagious and half because it seemed like a good time to back up, "Uh, I'd rather not. I value my life, thank you very much."

"That's why you're coming out now, so that I won't have to drag you through kicking and screaming slung over my shoulder St. Nick style."

"But…but my stuff," she gestured towards the bags she hadn't gotten around to unpack after Kirk had decided to 'borrow' her pink coat because, (this is a direct quote, by the way) 'It's warm. And fuzzy. And oh look, it even has a pocket to put my retainer in!'

"It'll still be here in the morning," he dismissed, beginning to grow impatient.

"But—

"Rory—I'm balancing on a window 50 feet off the ground and there's a bird that's looking very content on a perch right above my head. Now you could either climb out with me because of that, or because Trevor's starting to wake up."

After seeing Trevor groggily rub his eyes and stumble towards her, she hastily took Jess' hand, swinging a leg over to straddle the windowpane, "Have I told you I love you?"

"Not enough."

"Yeah well I love you. I'll write books about you. The incredible Travolta groupie."

"Oh god."

"My hero."

He paused for a second before replying, "I think this would be the part where you kiss me."

"Yes that is normally the routine implied in silent-movie land, but unfortunately there are no, what were they called again? Oh yes, 'breaks' in the land of 'Miss Polly gets tied to a Traintrack.' So personally, I am at a loss for what to do. Do I kiss you? Hug you? Ravish you against the window? Push you out the--"

He cut her off with a kiss. A short kiss. But it was enough initiation to predict what was about to happen.

She straightened his collar, even though it probably wouldn't be too straight in a couple seconds anyway, "So I take it the break's over?"

"You could put it that way."

"Can I kiss you now?"

He smirked, "if you must."

Their lips met, and all doubt that they were on a break, or bend, or curb, was erased. This was great. This was better than great. He shifted his position on the perch to pull her leg against his hip and cup her face, pinning her against the side of the window. Granted, the edge of a hole in the wall probably wasn't the most comfortable setting to be making up, or out so to speak. It works on both levels doesn't it? But the kissing was good. Very, very good. Audrey Hepburn and Spencer Tracy didn't stand a chance in this department.

"Jess?" she said, once he moved on to her neck, "We're balancing on a window outside a public apartment building."

"Great."

"Jess!"

"Hm?"

"There's an old lady across the street staring at us."

"Ignore her."

"She's shaking her cane at me and—oh wow. Seniority has clearly done nothing to her vulgar vocabulary."

Jess didn't respond, half because he had just managed to locate a very sensitive spot below her ear and was in the midst of repeating an action that made her squirm under his touch and rake her fingers apprehensively along his arm.

"Jess? I don't know about you but I really, really would like not to die."

"At least we'll die happy."

"Yeah well, the sight of our mutilated corpses landing splat in the middle of the street might just override that."

He sighed, pressing his forehead against her shoulder for a brief second before maneuvering himself expertly around her lapsed form. Taking hold of the windowsill and muttering a brief prayer to hell before dropping a grand total of 6 feet onto the fire escape.

Rory stared open-mouthed from her spot on the window, "Let me just take the time to say you're crazy if you expect me to do that."

"It's not that high," he extended an arm, "Come on, I'll catch you."

"Are you sure? Because you might just change your mind when you see my foot descending 60 miles an hour above your head."

"Rory just jump, will you?"

Muttering a brief prayer to heaven (as opposed to Jess' hell) she gingerly scooted her legs out into the open. Taking her time as she inched herself slowly but surely off the windowsill before finally cursing gravity and dropping safely onto the fire escape. Though it really depended on your definition of safely considering she'd landed hard on her ass. Fortunately for Jess, she was too glad to be alive to care that he'd forgotten to catch her.

Meanwhile… Paris had reached the top floor.


End file.
